"Come in, Mummy, I've been waiting to talk to you."

"Waiting, my lamb?"

Hugh pushed her, as a boy shoves a sister, into the end of the sofa.
There was a wood fire on the hearth in front of her, for the June
evening was cool, and luxurious Hugh liked a fire. A reading lamp was
lighted above Brock's deep chair, and there were papers on the floor by
it, and more low lights. There were magazines about, and etchings on the
walls, and bits of university plunder, and the glow of rugs and of
books. It was as fascinating a place as there was in all the beautiful
house. In the midst of the bright peace Hugh stood haggard.

"Hughie! What is it?"

"Mother," he whispered, "help me!"

"With my last drop of blood, Hugh."

"I can't go on--alone--mother." His eyes were wild, and his words
labored into utterance. "I--I don't know what to do--mother."

"The war, Hughie?"

"Of course! What else is there?" he flung at her.

"But your knee?"

"Oh, Mummy, you know as well as I that my knee is well enough. Dad knows